


your son

by limehoneytea



Series: in relation to alexander lightwood [2]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alec Lightwood Loves His Siblings, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen, Good Parent Maryse Lightwood, Happy Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood, Jace Wayland is a Lightwood, Lightwood Siblings, M/M, Maryse Lightwood Redemption, POV Outsider, POV Second Person, Parent-Child Relationship, but I love writing it so it's a series now :), this wasn't supposed to be a series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:53:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22091362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limehoneytea/pseuds/limehoneytea
Summary: You are eighteen years old and some days you think about how you were a child yourself a few moons ago, what do you know about motherhood? But then, your son smiles and you press him to your chest, to your heart.While you may not know much, you’re willing to learn. You’re willing to do everything for him.
Relationships: Alec Lightwood & Isabelle Lightwood & Max Lightwood & Jace Wayland, Alec Lightwood & Maryse Lightwood, Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood, Maryse Lightwood & Everyone, Maryse Lightwood & Jace Wayland
Series: in relation to alexander lightwood [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1578244
Comments: 2
Kudos: 71





	your son

**Author's Note:**

> A few things to note:  
> \- I'm pretty sure Alec's age isn't revealed in the show so I guessed it and tried to align the lightwoods' ages together so it made sense with max's bc his was more defined than his siblings'  
> \- I didn't have the script so the few times I quote the dialogue are based on memory so if they're off, don't hesitate to let me know :D
> 
> My friend started watching the show and reminded me of how much I loved them and because I got a lot of positive feedback on the first part of this series (it's my most popular fic right now!) and because I loved writing it so much, I thought I'd extend it !

Your son is a month and a half old when he first smiles. It’s warm and soft and utterly lovely and you pray to the angels that smile never leaves your boy’s face. 

You are eighteen years old and some days you think about how you were a child yourself a few moons ago, what do you know about motherhood? But then, your son smiles and you press him to your chest, to your heart. 

While you may not know much, you’re willing to learn. You’re willing to do everything for him. 

Your son is three years old when he holds his baby sister in his arms. He cradles her to his chest and whispers secrets only three-year-olds can comprehend to her sleeping ears. You watch them with a warmth blooming in your chest, exhaustion finally taking over your body. As your eyes shut, you smile, knowing that even if you can’t be there for your children (you want to,  _ by the angel _ , you want to), they will be there for each other.

(You remember your own brother, the one you thought would be by your side forever; the one who left you, your family, your shared world, for a mundane.  _ They will be better _ , you think,  _ they will have to be _ .)

Your son is five years old when you find him perched on his father’s desk scribbling notes in bright blue crayon. He grins as you pluck him off the table, a child-like, innocent grin, full of wonder. You shake your head at him but as he proudly displays his work, you forget how to frown for a minute and end up making a strange sort of expression, half a smile and half a stunted frown.

You think it must make you look pained, or sick, because in the next moment, your son presses the palm of his hand flat on your cheek and whispers, “Mama?” ever so softly. You place him gently on the ground and smile fondly, ruffling his hair and letting him run to find his sister. 

Your son is eight years old when he picks up his first bow and arrow. He wants a long-range weapon, he tells you in a sort of voice far too serious for a child of eight, to protect. He’s not very good, the first time around, but you see the determination set in his rounded jaw and wide eyes, and you know that he will do it. He will excel with a bow and arrow because he wants to, because he put his mind to it and because he’s not the type to back down. 

Your son his eleven years old ( _ and _ a _ half _ , he insists,  _ closer to twelve than eleven, anyway _ ) when he first meets Jace Wayland. 

The boys become fast friends, and at first, you’re proud of him. You think,  _ this is a skill that will benefit him later, in diplomatic missions _ , you think,  _ they have a potential for being parabatai _ , you think,  _ maybe now, he won’t be so lonely, with no one but his little sister to keep him company _ .

Your try not to think about your son’s lingering glances, darting eyes, or flushed cheeks. You try not to think about what they could mean, try not to imagine the Clave getting their vicious jaws around your boy, your oldest son.

(You’ve started thinking of Jace as your son too, but you don’t know whether it’s because of how his mismatched eyes light up every time you display some semblance of warmth to the boy, or because you think that being brothers will  _ fix _ your son. You decide it’s the former because the latter makes you feel like bile is climbing up your throat, like your own body can’t contain its disgust in itself.)

(Jace is your son either way, you decide in the end, because you love him as such and maybe that’s all that matters.)

Your son is twelve years old when he kills his first demon. He returns with blood on his hand and he looks at you, eyes hollowed, as he tries to smile proudly. It comes out a bit flat, a bit lopsided, even as his siblings chatter excitedly around him and ask him how it felt. 

It’s the first time you see him put on a mask for his siblings. He grins and recounts the events as if he wasn’t afraid, as if his hands didn’t shake, as if he didn’t wince when the demon screeched and crumbled. 

(You know because you understand. Because you remember making that face all those years ago when  _ your  _ brother asked you how killing  _ your _ first demon felt like and you couldn’t keep the shake out of your voice as you lied straight to his face.)

Your son is thirteen years old when gets a new brother. He cradles him in his arms just like he did with his sister and though he’s grinning wider than you’ve seen him grin in years and though his eyes are filled with love and affection for the tiny bundle in his arms, you feel as though you’ve only added another brick to the growing pile he carries. 

Your son is sixteen years old when he and Jace become parabatai and you feel like you breathe a breath of fresh air for the first time in years. Parabatais are forbidden to be anything to each other beyond siblings or best friends, forbidden to harbor any feelings that may be out of order and you hope that this  _ fixes _ your son, once and for all. 

(It doesn’t, you realize years later, you were a fool for thinking it would.)

Your son grows. He grows, and he grows, and he grows, until you find yourself craning your neck to look up rather than down to see your boy. His shoulders square up and his jaw defines itself, and you start to see him as all he’s supposed to be. 

Warrior. Leader. Shadowhunter.

He grows into everything you’ve ever wanted for him but sometimes, you look at your son and all you see is a mask. A mask of _I’m alright_ , a mask of _you don’t need to worry about me_ , a mask of _all_ _I want is to make you proud_. 

Some days, you _ are _ proud of him, of his accomplishments and his sense of duty and urge to take care of his siblings in every way he can manage.

But some days, you can’t stand to ignore the burden he carries, the weight of his responsibility carving out a hunch in his shoulder and a weight to his eyes. 

Your son is twenty-four when he tells you that he has a way of restoring your family name: a marriage, of the political sense, and at first, you can’t help but be apprehensive. You know this isn’t him, that he won’t be happy, but, you tell him you’re proud of him because you know he needs to hear it and because you are. You’ve always admired that about your son, his sense of duty, of family, it’s something of yours you see in him, so you smile and place an arm on his softly, telling him that he’s made you proud. 

He looks nervous up on that altar and there’s a shake to his hands you don’t remember ever seeing. You worry about your son, but you can’t help but feel a creeping sense of happiness make its way to your heart. 

It shatters as the door flies open.

You’re up on your feet in an instant to fix it, to eliminate threats to your son’s choice before they become too much of a problem. You march up to the warlock, ready to speak your mind and kick him out of the wedding faster than he appeared. But then, he tells you leave it up to your son and something tugging in your stomach makes you listen to him, wait to see how it plays out. 

_ Surely _ , you think,  _ surely he wouldn’t, _ and as his soon-to-be bride places a gentle hand on his cheek, you think you’re right. 

But then he turns, declaring, “enough,” with an air of finality you didn’t know he had as you try to interfere. He marches up to the warlock, his hand on the lapels of the man’s jacket, and he brings them together for a kiss.

It’s a sort of kiss that makes you feel like you shouldn’t be in the room as it happens, a sort of private and intimate kiss you don’t want to imagine your son engaged in. One kiss turns to multiple and as they finally break apart, your son has the curious, wonderous look in his eyes you haven’t seen since he was six years old. You storm off as he turns to you, and then storm off again, later, as he growls, “I’m the same person I’ve always been!” in your face with more contempt that you think your heart can stand. 

Time passes and your desperate thoughts of,  _ it’s a phase, it’s a phase _ , blur out with every passing moment you spend with your son. You find out things about yourself and your relationships you never wanted to and your mind drifts from your son’s (you don’t want to call it a relationship but he’s made it clear that it is one) long enough for it to develop farther than you thought it would.

You see them together, the easy way their presences intermingle and despite your best attempts, you start to accept it. Not fully of course, the ice around your heart is barely trickling, but enough that as your youngest son spouts ideas that you discover, to your horror, he’s learned from you, you feel some semblance of shame.

The warlock has gotten used to it, the prejudices, in his years, but your middle son, Jace, turns his wide eyes towards you and you try to grasp at the distant memories of them holding love and admiration for you than the hurt and pain they hold now.

You nearly lose two sons that day. And as more time passes, you lose yourself. 

Decades of being Maryse Lightwood has left you with little memory of Maryse Trueblood, and now, stripped of your name, and your power and the things you’ve worked towards for your entire life, you decide that maybe some effort is due to mend your bridges to the only part of your old life you have left: your children.

You have dinner with your eldest son and his lover, watch them exchange smiles and glances and move around each other like it’s the only place they belong. They seem to have struck up a rhythm and you almost feel guilty for intruding. Your son looks happier and you’re glad he grew to learn to fight for himself.

“My generation nearly destroyed everything in our passion to fix it,” you tell him, your hands gently clasped together, “yours will have to be wiser.” 

He smiles at you, a gentle mature sort of smile that somehow is a perfect amalgamation of the bright little boy you used to know and the man he has become. 

“Thank you for loving my boy,” you tell his lover gently, gentler than you’re used to, and smile as his deep brown eyes glass over. 

You leave them and return to the Institute, the place you’ve dedicated your life to, the place you’ve been cast out from, and meet your only daughter and your middle son.

They seem surprised to see the grin on your face but bound into your outstretched arms anyway like they’re eleven and twelve again and they’ve just killed their first demon. 

You’ve lost yourself, yes. The loss of your identity, your very being, has left a gaping hole in your chest, you don’t think you can ever fill. But, as your children pull away from you with wide grins and greetings on the tip of their tongues, you’re willing to try.

You’re willing to do everything for them. 


End file.
